It seemed a meager portion for such a pricey place–– three peas, a single escargot. Potatoes? not a trace. They’d spilled some brown stuff on the plate and dabbed a bit of green. No wonder other diners all looked so very lean.

Two bites and the first course was gone, the plates all whisked away, replaced by a sparse salad little more than mounds of hay. A tiny slivered mass of yellow with seeds sprinkled over, a spray of oil, some flower petals and a sprig of clover.

I looked my first date in the eye to see what he might think. As he lifted a forkful, he gave a little wink. We consumed their tiny lamb chops, complete with ruffled cuff and scarfed the spoonful of dessert that wasn’t near enough.

He paid the bill, retrieved our coats and walked me to his car. “I have another treat for you,” he said. “It isn’t far.” He pulled up to McDonalds and ordered two big macs,large French fries and two sodas and handed me the sacks.

Afterwards, at Dairy Queen, we sealed this new romance with Butterfinger Blizzards and then a smoldering glance. I accepted the next course with lips and arms most eager. And what he served me next, my dear, was anything but meager.

I do not like posh restaurants with their nouvelle cuisine. I find their foam and slivers and seeds and piles obscene. Their single little vegetables hung on tiny racks? I prefer larger portions and calories served in sacks!

And that is how we bonded, your Uncle Joe and I, over Colonel Sanders, Taco Bell and carryout Thai. Others may impress their dates with pricey gourmet suppers, but my true love seduced with feasts of fast food filler-uppers!

It’s just a little kiosk in the middle of the street between two one-way roadways, in the center where they meet. There aren’t any tables. There isn’t any chair. You have to stand out in the street to give your order there.

Mango or tequila, tamarind or corn. As you can see, the flavors don’t agree with any norm. They’ve ice cream made of purest cream , but they have ices, too, in so many flavors that I always choose a few.

My favorite? Strawberry ice. Vanilla under it. I get a cone so I don’t have to wait to plunder it. I finish it as I drive home, licking all the way. I give my dogs the empty cone. It always makes their day.

The cone is hard as any bone–sweet and chewy, too. If I were a better mother, I’d arrange that they had two. But though I know I’d enjoy two passing o’er my lips, Later I would not enjoy their presence on my hips.

I love that little ice cream stand. Love it all to heck, with its lovely homemade ice cream made in Jocotepec. That pueblo is quite close to me. It’s just five miles or so. So it isn’t that it is so very far for me to go.

The thing is that for me, ice cream is an impulse buy. It’s not a major purchase, like a cake or like a pie. If I just happen to be passing and see that fellow there waving his ice cream scoops at me, right out in the air,

preordination says that I must stop and have one now– a bite of crispy wafer cone, adorned with ice of cow. I do not claim responsibility for decisions of this kind. It’s a creative impulse, not a matter of the mind.

So if you’re a public servant–an official of this town looking for new laws to pass, don’t tear this kiosk down. Fill some potholes in the street or put a speed bump in. For legislating ice cream bans is sure to be a sin!

This is an edit of a poem from two years ago. Still at my writer’s retreat with little time to do prompts in the morning and since WordPress messed up and gave an extra prompt on the 26th, I’m just doing prompts in sequence a day behind..hard to explain, but gives me a chance to get the prompt done the night before.Nov 28/29 Daily Post Prompt, One Way.

Chunks and grains swirl round and round. They form a muddy mass. I keep my paddle churning them as I turn on the gas. As all the chunks and bits melt down, the volume now decreases. I watch the whole mess carefully. My vigilance increases. I see it all congealing—an oily inky sludge that after lengthy stirring finally turns to fudge! This horrid, bubbling, lumpy goo that appeared so pernicious, in the end turns into something creamy, rich, delicious.

In a recent conversation with a friend who is a scientist, water expert and inspector of water systems and industrial water waste, I learned the interesting fact that there is some hope regarding environmental issues, even in the wake of the Trump administration’s ridiculous easing of standards. He assured me that they’ve had little influence on the industrial systems he inspects as the large companies, first of all, are set up to conform to stricter standards and the restructuring of the system would be so costly that they are not about to alter things to meet new laws that will probably be changed back again anyway and which even they see the dangers of.

Hopefully, one thing that we will learn as a result of this ongoing disaster and embarrassment is that we need to alter the powers of the president, especially regarding his appointment of lifetime judges and his ability to administratively change standards that should be determined by congress or popular vote. The other changes that must be made are in the electoral college and lobbying rules. Perhaps the only good that will come out of this POTUS “calling trump” on us is that it will stir the pot and bring about much-needed change. The rules of our democracy did not take into account the possibility of the election of such an ignorant, childish and corrupt leader as Trump has proven to be.

I’d like a single cheeseburger with pickles on the side, cheese but no tomato—a fruit I can’t abide. Be sure there is no pink to see. I like my burgers brown. You can also skip the cardboard hat. I do not need a crown.

Grilled onions on the cheeseburger and easy on the goo. Give me a diet Coke with that. I’d like some French fries, too. I sit down at a booth to wait, my number on the table, but if I could, I’d supervise—that is, if I were able.

My sandwich comes. I have a bite. I see no pink or red. I start to take a drink of Coke but have a fry instead. It’s hot and oh so crispy. Redolent of grease. I feel a surge of appetite. My hunger pangs increase.

I alternate the bites I take between the fries and meat. As regular as clockwork. I do not miss a beat. For when it comes to fast food, I do not equivocate. My ratio of fries-to-burger I must calibrate.

I plan it down to the last fry. I don’t allow for glitches, and woe to folks who borrow one. I do not abide snitches. If you want a French fry, please buy some of your own.I have plans for all of mine. I am not sharing-prone.

With one more bite of burger and only two more fries,the ratio is one-to-two. I plan to synchronize.I have it all planned out, my friend, so if you’re chancing by,keep your fingers off my French fries, or somebody’s gonna die!